


Prayers to the Fade

by DeCarabas



Series: Fugitives Together [7]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 1, Blue Hawke, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 20:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6128742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCarabas/pseuds/DeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in the Deep Roads, Hawke asks Anders about teaching him to heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayers to the Fade

The glow of Anders’ healing magic is a comforting light in the Deep Roads. It’s become automatic, the moment the last darkspawn falls, even before Anders checks on the others, even when Hawke’s certain he came through without a scratch; Anders absently resting a hand on Hawke’s back and sending tendrils of warmth running down the length of his spine, coiling in his belly, soothing every ache and tension and strain. And maybe Hawke leans into that touch just a little, just for a moment, before Anders pulls away.

“Anybody need healing?”

Those threads of creation magic have a different flavor than the magic Hawke’s used to using, and he thinks if he watches close enough he can almost feel the shape of it. Almost. Not quite. It’s frustrating, and makes him think of his father’s talks on schools of magic, makes him think there’s something to that after all.

He’d never really grasped the idea of dividing magic into different schools. When he was younger and listening to his father’s lessons, Hawke had dismissed it as a Circle thing, trying to force the chaos of the Fade into neat categories. Didn’t make any sense. Magic was magic was magic.

Granted, all he’d ever managed to do with the energy he pulled through the Veil was the least subtle, most physically obvious of spells—or else the hollow numbness, _wrongness_ , of a dispel held at the ready as he watched Bethany’s lessons—but he’d figured that had more to do with a lack of imagination on his part than anything else. Or a lack of practice. Under his father, magic was something to learn _not_ to use.

And under Athenril, magic became something that could turn a profit; something that could earn him a comfortable living, if he’s smart about it. If he’s careful. And that had been revelation enough.

But Anders… Anders is something else.

Sitting side by side by the campfire, taking their turn at watch while Carver and Varric are asleep, he asks about it; asks if creation magic is something Anders could teach.

“I’ve been thinking I could help out in the clinic, maybe. When we get back.” When, not if. “Pay you back a little for dragging you out here.”

It sounds wrong once he says it. Feels cheap to talk about making up for the Deep Roads, after seeing the way Anders goes distant sometimes, listening to whatever it is that Wardens hear, or sense, or however it works. Constantly aware of the darkspawn in the distance. Hawke can’t imagine what that’s like for him.

And he didn’t mean it as an apology, just—Anders helps him so much. He wants to be able to give Anders something too, something more than just a share of the loot, as if this is just business between them. “For dragging you along all the time,” he adds.

And Kirkwall and the clinic both feel very far away right now. Unreal. But he hasn’t missed the conflicted look on Anders’ face every time he walks back into his corner of Darktown after one of Hawke’s jobs and hangs the lantern again. Like he should be able to solve all the world’s problems at once.

Anders smiles, and it looks fond in the dim light, but he shakes his head. “You’d be exposing yourself to half of Darktown as a mage.”

He says it so easily, like they’re talking about something hypothetical, something that will never really happen. A game. Something to take their mind off the weight of the stone above their heads.

And maybe it is, a little. But it’s not just that.

“Like you do, you mean,” Hawke says.

“Yes, and I live in the sewers. You’re going to be a wealthy man, Hawke! Enjoy it. You didn’t go to all this trouble just to end up like me.”

 _Would that be so bad?_ he almost says, but doesn’t. Easy for him to say, from the relative comfort of Lowtown.

But that’s the problem. Seeing the way Anders lives—the way he cares for people, the risks he takes, the price he pays for it—makes Hawke feel guilty for hiding.

“…You really can’t use any creation magic at all?” Anders asks when the silence begins to stretch a little too long. “I thought your father—in the Circle, they make you learn every school before your Harrowing. Even if he couldn’t heal—”

“He could heal. He just—” Hawke shrugs. “He taught us what he thought would keep us safe. Control. Focus. Meditation.” Learning to question his perceptions, to question whether he was dreaming, whether the person he was speaking to might be a demon in disguise. To mistrust anything that seemed too good to be true. And more spells just meant shiny new chances to catch the wrong sort of attention; even practical spells, healing, things that _should_ have kept them safe, if the world were different. More like the kind of world Anders talked about creating. “Might have been different if I’d had a knack for it, but I didn’t, and he didn’t push. He wanted us to have a normal life.”

Though they never really did. A normal life didn’t come with guard dogs and emergency bags always packed.

He wonders what his father would make of him now, deep underground, with darkspawn and a Grey Warden straight out of the stories. All for the sake of trying to buy his way into the illusion of normality. _Normal_ _means safe._

Sometimes Hawke thinks he should give Carver all the money from the expedition, let him and their mother set themselves up in the Amell estate without him. _That_ would be safe.

He can just imagine the fit Carver would throw if he ever said that out loud.

“That’s how they start you out in the Circle,” Anders says. “First few years are all about control, focus, meditation. Then they decide how they’re going to put you to use.” Something dark and bitter in his voice, and Hawke’s not completely certain if he’s only hearing one voice or if there’s undertones of something else, and he puts his hand on Anders’ knee.

He wants to encourage Anders to keep going. If he glows, there’s no one here to see but Hawke. And he’s incredible to watch when he gets really worked up, jaw set and fists balled up tight, words spilling out like he can’t hold them in, on fire. Somehow finding every forgotten resentment Hawke had buried under an acceptance of the way the world works and dragging it all into the light.

But that’s a selfish urge, not fair to Anders. He doesn’t understand what it’s like in Anders’ head, with Justice, and maybe it’s like his father’s lessons—don’t summon fire until you’ve got something you want to burn.

And Anders looks down, looks at Hawke’s hand on his knee for so long that Hawke wonders if he’s crossed some boundary in this strange push-pull between them.

“So healing isn’t something you chose?” Hawke asks.

“No, it is. I was lucky; healing’s useful. The senior enchanters were thrilled.” There’s no more undertones in that, and Anders carefully folds his own fingers together, a deliberate gesture, like he doesn’t trust himself to leave his hands free. “But someone who wants to study magic to grow crops gets _gently_ steered in another direction. You can study herbs and turn them into medicines and poisons and potions to sell, something they can use in a ritual; but you can’t go back to being a farmer.”

Hawke watches him, wondering whether he’s thinking of someone specific. “What about someone who just makes things explode?”

“Provided it’s on purpose? Oh, they’d love you. Send you up to the Anderfels to train as a proper soldier, fight off the darkspawn raids. Under templar supervision, of course.” Anders fidgets with his hands, thumb sliding restlessly along laced-together fingers. “My father was from the Anderfels, did I ever tell you that? That’s what the Circle must have looked like to him—a place that trains us to defend the people. Honorable, really. He would have thought—”

He falls silent abruptly. And he’s never spoken of how he was sent to the Circle, not exactly, but Hawke thinks he can fill in the blanks.

“He would have thought it was the right thing,” Hawke says.

Anders nods. Then he looks up from his hands, looks at Hawke, though Hawke can’t see much of his expression in the dim light. And Anders says, “So with your father, you just… didn’t use magic at all?” Shifting the subject away from himself. But he sounds so quietly horrified at the thought that it makes Hawke smile, and he sits back.

“Not exactly. We had these bonfires. And snowstorms in winter.” And a few little tricks he and Bethany had thought up on their own when their father wasn’t looking. Things that might still pass for natural even if someone caught them at the wrong moment.

“It sounds nice,” Anders says, soft.

And Hawke wonders what he’s picturing. It had been a chore, mostly. Or maybe a bargain, a kind of prayer to the Fade. _You can have this piece of my world. Let me have some peace in my dreams._

Using magic had its risks, but not using it at all just resulted in more and more vivid dreams, growing more and more distracted in the waking world, until a slip in attention left flames sparking around his fingers. The Fade reminding him that he’s a part of it. Finding an outlet, one way or another.

And he doesn’t know if he believes in praying to Andraste or the Maker, but he believes in praying to the Fade. It answers.

The light shifts, Anders’ profile illuminated by a pale glow, and Anders raises his left hand and holds it out to Hawke, wreathed in blue. Not Justice’s jagged lines, but the soft light of creation magic.

“Here,” he says. “Don’t try to shape it into anything. Just get the feel of it first.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I didn’t change my mind. You don’t need to help in the clinic. You don’t owe me anything.” And that’s hard to swallow when Anders is sitting in the darkness of the Deep Roads because of him. But Anders waits, palm up. “Still want to learn?”

“Yeah.” Hawke nods, takes his hand, and lets the threads of Anders’ magic sink into his skin, run through his hand, up to his shoulder and down, tickling at the base of his spine. The raw creation magic tastes different from the healing spells that Anders shapes it into; a second wind, a restless urge in his limbs that leaves him wanting to get up and run, move for the joy of it.

Surprisingly physical, for the Fade—or, no, he decides as he closes his eyes, turning it over between his hands. Not surprising at all. The Fade’s love and longing for the physical form, just itching to push it to its limits and see what it could do, making his heart beat faster.

He takes a deep breath to ground himself, but the magic slips from his grip, dissipates in the air. And when he opens his eyes and looks to Anders with an unsteady grin, he finds himself focusing on the smallest details. The way Anders’ lips are parted, just slightly. It’s hard to look away.

Anders looks away first, turning toward the firelight. “Your father was a good man,” he says, shaking his hand a little. Hawke wonders uncomfortably if he caught any backlash when he let go of the magic. “Trying to give you a normal life. But you shouldn’t have to choose between learning to use this and living your life. You shouldn’t have to hide.”

“Yeah,” Hawke agrees, and his voice comes out less steady than he’d expected. Swallows. “None of us should. Have to hide. Not that I’m sure you’re trying, half the time, but—it’s not right.” And the smile that flashes across Anders’ face is so surprised, still, to hear Hawke agree with him. How can he still be so surprised?

Hawke holds out his hand. “Could we try that again?”

And the glow of Anders’ magic plays over his skin, bright against the darkness of the Deep Roads.


End file.
